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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25317334">Under Sunwashed Skies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brentavius_Rex/pseuds/Brentavius_Rex'>Brentavius_Rex</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Under Sunwashed Skies [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:55:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,824</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25317334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brentavius_Rex/pseuds/Brentavius_Rex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Under Sunwashed Skies [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833781</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Please, let it work this time," I whisper in prayer, making the Sign. I raise the key to my lips, kissing it softly before lightly touching it to my forehead, to my chin, to the safety harness buckle over my heart.</p>
<p>"Please, let it work this time," I whisper in prayer as I insert the key into the ignition switch. Sweat beads on my skin, slipping around my goggles to drip down my cheeks and off the tip of my nose.</p>
<p>"<em>Please,</em> let it work this time," I beg in prayer as I turn the key.</p>
<p>Nothing.</p>
<p>Something between a growl and a swear slips out in a huff as I try the key again. Only silence answers from the depths of the hangar's shadows. Long rows of gas lamps burn above, their heat shields down for the daylight hour. I lift my goggles and double check the instrument panel: I flip switches, I turn dials, I tap hopefully on gauges. The harness holding me against the seat digs into my shoulders and sides, only adding to the frustration.</p>
<p>Nothing leaps out as a cause, so I try the key a third time. Once more, I get only silence for my effort.</p>
<p>Muttering a word that I picked up from some freight hauler at the air shipyard, I slam my hand against the side of the tiny cockpit, thankful the thick leather gloves I wear protect me from more than a moment of pain.</p>
<p>"Khaz, your mother would not approve of that language," Omar says from above and behind me. Why did I have to leave the canopy open?</p>
<p>"Djamila does not approve of many things I do," I respond, rolling my eyes.</p>
<p>"She," he agrees. "Among others." </p>
<p>I grunt noncommittally. "As much as I always enjoy this line of conversation, I would rather get this sands-taken contraption working."</p>
<p>"You know," he says, his face appearing in the open canopy above my head, "you really have no one to blame but yourself. After all, it was your idea to use the electronic starter out of an auto carriage to replace manual propeller ignition."</p>
<p>At nineteen, Omar is only a few months older than I am. Short black hair caps his round head. Plump, terracotta cheeks and a patronizing smile do much to hide his dark eyes. Were he not my cousin, I would smack that smug grin off his face. Instead, I pat him a little less than gently on the head, using the last pat to push him back from the cockpit.</p>
<p>"Then get back there, and figure out why my idea isn't working."</p>
<p>Several moments pass in silence, with only this hiss of the gas lamps to fill the void, before the clatter of tool on metal signals Omar's attempts to fix whatever the problem might be. While he works, I brood, mentally forming solutions and discarding them almost as quickly. Growing tired of that, I test the mechanical elements: I alternate pressing the left and right pedals, watching the twin forward vertical stabilizers swivel, and mentally noting a slight hitch in the motion of the left one. I turn the wheel to the left and right, then I pull it back and push it forward to verify the movements of the horizontal stabilizers and the forward-swept wings.</p>
<p>If only we could get the engine turning.</p>
<p>Resting my head against the seat's back sends a jolt down my spine; short buzzed hair against the inside of my leather flight cap tickles my scalp like dune beetles. A distant memory causes a smile to creep across my face. One summer, when Father was shearing the sheep, I asked him to shear me as well--much to Mother's protests--and I have worn it the same length since. Also to Djamila's protests.</p>
<p>A flicker of movement catches my attention. A worn scrap of paper, an aged photo taped carefully to the control panel, flutters in the gentle breeze circulating through the hangar. I gingerly brush the ever-present sand dust from one of the few pictures I have of my family:  my mountain of a father, Rashad, stoic as an ox and stubborn as a mule, whose smile hides the sadness ever-present since Mother's passing; beside him, Djamila, his second wife, dark and slight with a smile that could melt sand into glass; in front of them, Iyesha, Djamila's daughter and my sister in all but blood, and only a few days shy of being my twin; and me, the spitting image of my father, with his broad nose and high forehead. At least Iyesha was blessed with her mother's dainty features, honey eyes, high cheeks.</p>
<p>"You love her, don't you?" Omar asks from above. Resting his head on his folded arms has comically pressed his cheek up toward his eye.</p>
<p>"What kind of question is that?" I ask, hoping he didn't notice my stumble over the words. "Of course I do. I love all of my family."</p>
<p>He grunts, raising an eyebrow because he knows exactly how I feel about Djamila, then shakes his head before sliding back from the canopy.</p>
<p>"I think I found the problem," Omar eventually says, dragging the words out through the fog of concentration.</p>
<p>"And you fixed it?" I prompt, after waiting for him to elaborate.</p>
<p>"Oh," he says, coming back into the moment, "no. We need to completely tear down this engine to fix it."</p>
<p>"Omar..." I begin.</p>
<p>"I did, however, manage a temporary work around," he adds quickly. I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. I make a mental note to reward him for his success later. "At least you can see if the electronic starter works."</p>
<p>"All right, hold on. I'm going to try again."</p>
<p>I settle my goggles properly and repeat my prayer, then turn the key. The starter turns and the engine coughs, but does not catch. I try a second time and get the same result.</p>
<p>"Check the fuel air intake," I say.</p>
<p>"Make sure your fuel pump is on!" he calls back.</p>
<p>"Of all the most basic, useless pieces of advice--" Anything else I might say dies on my tongue. A metallic toggle labeled "Emergency Fuel Pump Kill Switch DO NOT TURN OFF" is clearly flipped into the off position. Sighing to myself, I correct the toggle, wincing as a quiet hum fills the cockpit.</p>
<p>"What was that you said? 'Most basic'? 'Useless'?" This time, the aural satisfaction is more smug.</p>
<p>"Yes, yes," I say. "As often as you are wrong, I suppose you are allowed to be right every now and again."</p>
<p>"Why, Khaz, that almost sounds like an apology."</p>
<p>"Almost," I agree.</p>
<p>"Time to try again?" Omar asks.</p>
<p>"Third time gets the charm, as they say."</p>
<p>Once more, I turn the key. Multiple seconds pass as the engine turns before, with a final cough, it roars to life. Omar and I both cheer, though in his excitement, he falls from the sand wing to the floor.</p>
<p>"All you all right?" I call to him, peering as best I can over the edge of the cockpit.</p>
<p>"Only my pride hurts," he replies, adding as he stands, "And my behind."</p>
<p>"Good. I would hate for you to miss me taking this up."</p>
<p>"WHAT!?" he cries, but I have already engaged the propeller and pushed the throttle forward. The sand wing rolls toward the hangar door, slowly at first but building speed. Omar runs along beside for a while, waving his arms and, I'm sure, trying to get me to stop.</p>
<p>"I can't hear you!" I yell, knowing full well he can't hear me over the propeller or the engine either.</p>
<p>In one blinding instant, the sand wing emerges from the shadowed interior of the hangar into the bright midday sun.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Behind me, the engine thunders, filling the cockpit with vibrations that threaten to send my spine through my chest, and my breastbone through my safety harness. Farther back and between the forward-swept wings, the propeller chops through the air, pulling the sand wing forward.</p>
<p>Momentarily blinded by the sudden change in brightness, I am forced to shield my eyes before I remember to flip down the polarized lenses of my goggles. Once again in a comfortable semi-darkness, I turn the sand wing toward the main field. The air-filled tires of the sand wing's hybrid landing gear roll gently over the compacted sand. Were the sand any softer, the wheels would sink enough for the skiffs to carry the weight instead.</p>
<p>With precise, practiced movements of the controls, I guide the sand wing between the twin rows of mostly abandoned hangars. This far from the central field, these hangars are used for storage during what passes for winter in the Wastes; now, during what passes for summer in the Wastes, nearly all are empty and understaffed. Slowly, though, the signs of airfield life appear: the organized chaos of stripped-down engines or wings, a freshly abandoned welding cart, and the burly hauler who abandoned it leaned against the side of a hangar with his lunch. Finally, empty hangars become more densely populated workshops, and I pointedly ignore the looks I am sure the gearheads are giving me. Let's see one of <em>them</em> build a working sand wing from discarded wrecks.</p>
<p>As I approach the final pair of hangars and turn onto the central artery that will take me to the runway, the realization that this is actually going to happen makes me giddy. The only thing that could possibly stop me now is--</p>
<p>Standing in the center of the taxiway, directly in my path, with his hands on his hips. The squat man in dingy coveralls glares up at me from under the wide brim of his hat. His dark eyes, so much like Omar's and, yet, so different bore into me even at this distance.</p>
<p>To say Sadiq, Omar's father and my uncle, looks none too happy to see me right now would be a moderate understatement. To say he looks as if he is daring me to run him over would be considerably more accurate.</p>
<p>For a moment, I consider accepting his challenge and continuing my maiden flight, but that moment passes quickly. Undoubtedly, running down the foreman and owner of the largest privately held airfield this side of the Wastes would not be viewed kindly by anyone. Besides, I am sure he would be more nimble than my sand wing, and I doubt I would be able to get around him. Reluctantly, I pull back on the throttle and coast to a stop some distance from Sadiq.</p>
<p>He does not move, not that I expected him to, except to remove his hat and cross his arms. Though it is mostly gray, the crown of hair ringing his bald head retains a few traces of its original black. He does not even acknowledge when Omar finally catches up and nearly collapses at his feet. With a heavy sigh, I kill the engine and wait.</p>
<p>"I can explain," Omar tells the ground under his shoes, between heaving gasps.</p>
<p>Though he does not take his eyes off me, Sadiq quiets his son with a gentle hand on the young man's shoulder.</p>
<p>"Perhaps you should explain," Sadiq barks at me, though he does not allow me to. As I open my mouth, he throws his hands in the air. "I do not wish for excuses!" he rants. "Get out of that thing and come down here at once! What were you thinking, fool g--child?"</p>
<p>For the briefest of instants, Sadiq's rage slips, though he recovers it nearly instantly. He knows, and knows I know, what word he had been about to use. It turns my stomach to think my family would almost casually shame me in public.</p>
<p>Shedding my helmet and goggles, I shake my head and unbuckle my harness, letting the ends fall beside me as I stand in the seat of the cockpit. I pull my gloves off, tucking them into the back pocket of my khaki cargo pants. I dry my hands on my black work shirt, adjusting my suspenders down either side of my chest.</p>
<p>"Do I need to wait for you to reapply your makeup, too?" Sadiq gripes, and I glare. Were his head a lighter-than-air ship, its ballast envelope would be in shreds and its occupants scrambling to evacuate.</p>
<p>Tightening my grip on the cockpit frame, I take a deep breath. He is lucky my willpower is not as strong as I would like, or he would be seeing the inside of one of the giant worms that burrow through the sands outside the city.</p>
<p>Steeling myself for what will undoubtedly be a severe tongue lashing, I step out of the cockpit and onto the wing. I know this craft like any mother knows her own child, which allows me to use the wing's internal supports as stepping stones. There is no need to damage my grand project before Uncle has it scrapped. Again.</p>
<p>Were any other mechanic on Uncle's payroll to build such a machine, they would likely have praises thrown at them. At the very least, they would not have had to build it in secrecy. The thought fills my mouth with bile. While I am tempted to spit it out, I wager I should not slight Uncle Sadiq any further. Maybe I can convince him of the sand wing's merits.</p>
<p>Maybe.</p>
<p>My boots hit the packed sand as I slide from the front edge of the wing. Adjusting the waist of my cargo pants around my hips, I spare a glance for Omar. He has regained his breath and is once again standing. Beside his father, he is just tall enough to see over the senior man's head. He looks at me then back to Sadiq, then he ducks his head and slinks toward the shadows of the nearest hangar. As he passes me, he pauses and mouths <em>I'm sorry</em> before continuing past. Once beyond me, he has the compassion to attempt to shoo away any onlookers, though I don't turn to see how effective he might be.</p>
<p>I will not speak first.</p>
<p>Uncle Sadiq and I stand in silence, facing each other as if we were gunfighters in those moving picture shows that Djamila doesn't know I sneak into. A light breeze blows across my face, hot and dry like everything else in the Fringe. Sweat beads on my cheeks and neck, and a few get the wild idea to dribble down my back. I refuse to acknowledge them, though, since I don't want to give Uncle the satisfaction of my looking uncomfortable.</p>
<p>I will not speak first.</p>
<p>I do not look away from him. I will not. Neither will he, it seems.</p>
<p>I will not speak first.</p>
<p>"Uncle," I hear myself say. Apparently, I <em>will</em> speak first. "Look at what I have built!" I press on, motioning with both hands to take in all of the sand wing.</p>
<p>"Oh, yes," he answers, leaning slightly to look around me. "I can see clearly what you have done." There is a brief flicker of hope that he might actually approve, but he continues. "You have stolen my property," he says, counting off each point on a finger, "you have squandered my time, you have dragged my son away from his duties."</p>
<p>"I stole--"</p>
<p>"And," he continues, yelling over me, "you have paraded this monstrosity around my yard like some peahen as if you are proud of its bland colors and tiny plumage!"</p>
<p>The words cut deep and I can only stand there agape at the assault. My mouth moves but words will not come. I realize after a few seconds that the stinging in my eyes is the beginnings of tears, but I bite my lip and will them not to fall. While it appears that I cannot conjure up desert worms, at least I can unsummon unshed tears.</p>
<p>"I squandered your time?" The words finally crawl from my dry lips. The pit in my belly burns like the dunes of the Wastes.</p>
<p>"Tell me, Uncle," I say as I take a handful of steps toward him, "who routinely finishes each and every project you throw their way? Who holds the mechanics' guild record for tearing down and rebuilding an engine?"</p>
<p>Sadiq does not answer, though he shifts his feet.</p>
<p>"Who has put more of your wings back in the air than any man in this yard, yourself included?"</p>
<p>"You-" he begins, but now it is my turn to talk over him.</p>
<p>"Sand and glass, me!" I yell. "So, tell me how I am squandering your time!"</p>
<p>"I was not paying you to do--" He jabs a finger over my head at my creation--"this!"</p>
<p>"You're right!" I counter. "I did this--" I point at the sand wing, mocking his motion--"on my own time! With scrap!"</p>
<p>"My scrap!" he bellows. "For me to do with as I wish!"</p>
<p>"What could you possibly have done with it?" I demand. "It was scrap!"</p>
<p>"I was taking bids from several smelters--" Realizing he has lost control of the argument, he throws his hands up and growls wordlessly. He takes a deep breath and smooths the top of his head in what I imagine is a habit from when he actually had hair.</p>
<p>"Khadijah," he begins again, the patronizing tone in his voice making it brutally clear that he may as well be talking to a three-year-old.</p>
<p>The glowing ball in the pit of my belly flares white-hot, and I close the remaining distance between us. Fortunately for Uncle Sadiq, forgotten Omar intercepts me before I can do more than snatch his shirt, nearly pulling him off his feet.</p>
<p>"You do not get to call me that," I seeth, wrapping my hand in as much of his shirt as I can.</p>
<p>"Khalil," Omar says softly in my ear. When I do not react, he instead says, "Khaz?"</p>
<p>Sadiq's grin is as slimy as freshly packed rotor bearings. Gone are the rage and momentary confusion.</p>
<p>"What would your mother think of her little girl," he muses, "dressing up, playing with the boys…"</p>
<p>I tear myself free of Omar's grasp and dive on Sadiq, riding him to the ground. </p>
<p>"I! Am! My! Father's! Son!" I yell, punctuating each word with a punch. A pair of toughs scramble over from somewhere, and, along with Omar, manage to pry me free from the bloodied foreman. Later, I will be grateful that I know the pair as comrades since more than one wild elbow connects with someone's head.</p>
<p>"Take this peahen out of here!" Sadiq screams, on his back trying very hard not to look like a turtle on its back. He swats away an offer of help from another tough, though I can't imagine that it helps his position any. </p>
<p>"And," he adds to me, finally back on his feet, "if you decide to drag your sandy carcass back here tomorrow, you had better be ready for double your workload. Sands take me if I let you have time to show this type of blatant arrogance and disrespect in my yard again!"</p>
<p>"<em>If</em> I come back tomorrow," I agree, "it will be for my sand wing!" I have not moved since Omar and the two pulled me away, though they did trust me enough to let me go. Neither has Sadiq moved since regaining his feet.</p>
<p>Ultimately, Omar has to turn me away, placing a hand on my shoulder and nudging me toward a nearby gap between hangars. A few muttered words pass between him and the pair, now joined by the one who offered his hand up to Sadiq. I hear almost none of it, though he tells me later that plans are made to save my creation and hide it from Uncle.</p>
<p>"Once you've sent this peahen on its way, boy," Sadiq calls just before we pass beyond the hangars, "come back to my office. I am not even remotely done with you."</p>
<p>Beside me, Omar groans, so I reach up to take his hand, squeezing it reassuringly.</p>
<p>"Thank you," I say.</p>
<p>Omar nods, offering a smile. "Hey, that is what family is for."</p>
<p>Looking back between us, I glare at where we left Sadiq. "Some family," I concede.</p>
<p>"Some family," he agrees, "that happen to be standing right here."</p>
<p>I lean up and kiss his jaw. "Thank you, again."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We complete the rest of our trip to the edge of the property in silence, and now stand at the high, corrugated sheet metal walls that separate the airfield from the rest of the Fringe.</p>
<p>"Where will you go?" Omar asks finally, opening the personnel door in one of the large cargo gates.</p>
<p>"Djamila will not expect me home for a few hours more," I admit with a sigh, "so I cannot go by her shop yet. Maybe I will go see Iyesha in the bazaar."</p>
<p>"Just--" He hesitates, placing a hand on my shoulder. We are almost the same height, so I only have to raise my chin a little to look him in the eye. "Just promise me you will come back tomorrow."</p>
<p> "Of course." I smile weakly. "I will have to rebuild my sand wing, after all."</p>
<p>"Maybe," he agrees. Looking back over his shoulder, he adds, "Maybe not. I still have to talk to him. Perhaps I can salvage our work."</p>
<p>"My work," I grumble, though halfheartedly.</p>
<p>"Our work," he repeats. "Without me, you would still be in that hangar, praying to your key."</p>
<p>"For all the good that did," I concede. "I could have flown, you know."</p>
<p>Omar leans against the door frame and crosses his arms, nodding with as much sarcasm as he can muster. "Oh, I believe you could have. If you count getting your wheels off the ground as flight."</p>
<p>"I count flight as flight!" I insist, punching his arm. "Wheels up and locked, nothing but sky below me."</p>
<p>He pokes my nose. "No matter how high you go, there is always ground below you."</p>
<p>"When did you get so poetic?" I ask.</p>
<p>A shrug is all the answer I get. "And," he continues, casting his eyes behind me and over my head, "if you go too high, you might not survive to find it."</p>
<p>I turn, following his gaze into the distance, to the flat-topped earthen Pillar our Fringe is built around. Were one to stand at the foot of it, the plateau would stretch as far as the eye can see in either direction and more than a mile into the sky. Medina, Jewel of the Desert, Gateway to the Eastern Wastes, the Emperor's Crossroads, Shining City on a Plateau, May its Light shine forever, sits at its peak, watching over the Fringe and all of the desert around it.</p>
<p>"Then I had better not fly too high," I say.</p>
<p>He stands, stretching in the doorway. "If you are going to have any chance to fly at all, I need to do what I can to keep Father from destroying our work."</p>
<p>Finally pulling my gaze from the Pillar, I nod. "Our work," I repeat, as I hug him tightly. "Thank you." He will make a good partner one day.</p>
<p>He backs away from the gate, waving to me in goodbye. "Give your sister some love for me," he calls, finally turning away and running back toward Uncle Sadiq's personal shop.</p>
<p>I shake my head with a laugh and pull the gate closed. They may be promised to each other, but he will never have my Iyesha.</p>
<p>Though the sun is well past its zenith, it still blazes down on me. I wipe my brow then dry my hand on my shirt. Standing here will get me no closer to the bazaar, nor am I going to get back inside the yard today. Uncle Sadiq will have made sure of that by now. With my destination in mind, I adjust my waistband, tightening my suspenders, and break into a gentle trot.</p>
<p>For a distance, I let my fingers trail along the high, sheet metal wall, the quick staccato reminding me of dead leaves in two-wheeler spokes. Eventually, the wall ends, marking the border between Uncle Sadiq's domain and the rest of the Fringe. Warehouses, workshops, and others not intimidated by the noise of a working airfield stand as far from the Pillar as the sandworms will let us build. Tall, square buildings, nearly identical to each other, line the far side of the wide lane, divided sporadically by larger avenues, smaller alleys, and the occasional public area. With each concentric ring inward, the buildings lose some of their sameness and height, until the oldest, unique structures nearest the Pillar appear as though they are being reclaimed by the sand.</p>
<p>The gentle rhythm of my boots on the hard-packed sand echoes back off of shop fronts and homes alike. Slowly, Father's teachings of the Sands and the Winds calm me, letting me drift. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear bleating goats and clucking chickens in their pens. I almost notice strands of laundry strung between the upper windows of an alley. I vaguely sense the children running alongside me for a time before separating back into their own group, laughing and screaming and swinging at each other with sticks.</p>
<p>So lost am I in my own thoughts that I don't realize I've crossed into an intersection until the auto-carriage almost runs me over. I slide to a stop just as the metal marvel, all red and black and chrome, swerves around me; its large, spindly wheels buck across the well-worn ruts in the sand, bouncing on its strange inflated rubber balloons. The driver curses at me as he passes, more words I must remember not to use in front of Djamila since she would most definitely not approve of them.</p>
<p>Once again in the moment, I dart back to the side of the avenue and offer up a silent prayer to the Sands in hopes that no one saw what happened. A pair of girls in dark habits, younger than me by their heights, giggle at me as they pass. Whether because of the incident or my attire, I don't care to ask. Neither a mechanic's skill nor a mechanic's clothes are approved for my assigned--let's say station--and some girls tend to find my appearance amusingly vulgar. Others find it much less amusing.</p>
<p>Looking around the intersection, I realize that, while I know where I am in a general sense, I am not where I want to be in a specific sense. I have not passed the bazaar, but I should have reached it by now, judging by the shadows of the buildings. Retracing my steps toward the airfield, I discover where I missed my turn and correct my mistake. Taking a side street, wider than the one I was on but narrower than the avenue with the auto-carriage, I jog past more shops and fewer homes. I have to slow to a walk as the scant pedestrian traffic begins to fill the street around me.</p>
<p>The closer I get to the bazaar, the more shops begin to change; from simply being homes with signs stating their purpose over the door, to open front buildings with display tables, to complete trade workshops hawking their wares or services. Once colorful awnings and rugs, now as faded and sunwashed as the rest of the Fringe, line the sides of streets, offering shade to those that wish to purchase. Those who only wish to browse learn quickly not to take up valuable customer space. I have seen more than one loiterer whipped by an angry shopkeeper.</p>
<p>Beside me, one such poor soul, a young man give or take my age, has spent too much time not buying from a fruit seller's shop. His bleached shirt and gray vest mark him as a member of the Porter's Union, and a low ranking member of the Harbor Guildhall, judging by the wine-colored sash at his waist. Quick reflexes and luck help him escape with nothing more than an embarrassing story to share at the common house later. I, however, do not fare so well, as the fruit seller's whip catches me on the forehead, ripping a gash across my skin. Instinctively, my hands go to my wound as I cry out, blood seeping down my face and into my eye.</p>
<p>The young man collides with me, knocking me from my feet, though he manages to keep his balance. The fruit seller, a short man as wide as he is high, waddles up to us both. The passing crowd splits around us, giving us a tiny island of open space. I glare up at the young man with my uncovered eye, feeling the blood flowing down my cheek and through my fingers.</p>
<p>"Clumsy oaf!" I spit, staining the pale sand with crimson.</p>
<p>The color drains from his cheeks as he looks from me to the fruit seller. The young man backs away a single step before turning and running into the crowd, knocking several people out of his way in the process.</p>
<p>"Hey!" I call, cursing as I try to crawl to my feet with only one hand. I move to follow him, but the fruit seller catches my free arm.</p>
<p>"Idiot," the fruit seller huffs. "The whip was meant for him."</p>
<p>"Then you had better work on your aim." Part of me knows I should not talk to him that way. However, I am embarrassed and sore and bleeding, and I am unwilling to listen to that part of me.</p>
<p>"Did your father not teach you your place?"</p>
<p>"My father is dead," I say through clenched teeth, attempting to tug my arm from his grip, "and still twice the man you are."</p>
<p>"Insolent child!" He draws back his other hand, but I succeed in pulling free before he can swing at me.</p>
<p>I shove my way into the crowd, making every effort not to get blood on anyone else. No need to add any further grievances to today's long list. I follow the crowd into the bazaar proper, every once in a while standing on my toes to peer over the heads of those around me, hoping to catch sight of the porter. Each attempt only assures me that I have lost him. In frustration, I give up and return to finding my sister.</p>
<p>The bazaar, one of several throughout the Fringe and simply the closest one to our home, fills a public space several blocks square. I cannot help but compare it to the traveling carnival that comes every autumn. Streets and avenues enter from all sides, though only foot traffic is allowed during daylight hours. Shops, stalls, carts, and tents take up every possible space, with the most daring of merchants making their own spaces.</p>
<p>I should have known my sister would not settle for the possible spaces.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tulakhit Fountain sits at the heart of the square where the bazaar has taken root. While there is little remarkable about the wide square pool or the half-dozen or so tall jets of water arcing across the basin, the same cannot be said for the impressive figure atop the pedestal at its center. As a way of commemorating a trade deal, some trade partner or another from across the Eastern Wastes commissioned the statue, an image of our Emperor--long may he reign--as seen by foreign artists. The regular merchants have an understanding and will not conduct their business around the fountain out of respect. Sometimes, though, the City Watch has to be summoned for those that do not know.</p>
<p>It is there, under the stone Emperor's unwavering gaze, that Iyesha has parked her shop.</p>
<p>The boxy wagon had once been part of a caravan from across the sea until the Trade Master had learned of the subterranean terrors outside our Fringe that limit ground travel. Several hours of service to the caravan and a week's pay were a hefty price for something he was just going to discard or scrap anyway, but I grudgingly agreed. More than a week of personal time had turned a simple rectangular box into a rolling storefront: double doors on one wall swing open to reveal a display case and shelves, and a canopy unrolls from the edge of the roof. I lost count of the meals I missed or ate cold or the sleep I gave up, but the sacrifice was well worth it to see Iyesha's face light up when I surprised her with it.</p>
<p>Now, however, I can barely tell the cart from the crowd spread out dozens deep in a writhing half-moon. I know she is there, though; my girl who lived has a presence that is hard to ignore. A flicker of brilliant white as her hands move within the shadow of the canopy. The familiar vanilla and coffee scent of her lotion carried by the breeze. The Winds' own voice, able to make the Sands do their bidding.</p>
<p>"Iyesha!" I call, standing on my toes and waving above the gathered crowd. She barely tosses a wave back between customers, but it is enough to show me that she heard. Despite the dark robes and niqab hiding her face, I know she is smiling. She always smiles for me.</p>
<p>As I push my way around the crowd, drawing irate glances and harsh words for my effort, I silently wonder why it has gathered in the first place. Upon reaching the cart, I find my answer. Djamila's work with cloth and needle is second to none in the Fringe and better than most outside it. I could recognize it in the dark. Bolts of raw and dyed fabric lay on display, while finished dresses and scarves hang from hooks on the double doors. Some pieces have little or no decoration while others have as much as to be gaudy. That so many more of the latter are dispersed through the crowd than the former is a testament to Iyesha's sales skills. Why anyone in the Fringe would want such things is beyond my grasp. Why anyone who would want such things would be in the Fringe is completely inconceivable.</p>
<p>"Brother," she says in simple greeting, deftly swapping cloth for coin before beckoning for her next sale.</p>
<p>"That I am," I reply as I climb onto the steps leading up to the cart's back stoop. "And an older one, if memory serves."</p>
<p>"What does that have to do with the price of silk in the Capital?" she asks, artfully weaving the question into the gaps between haggling with two different customers over the same dress.</p>
<p>I shake my head and lean back against the shop's wall, propping my foot up on the stoop's rail. "It means I have to keep you out of trouble," I add, folding my arms over my chest.</p>
<p>"Hey!"</p>
<p>I blink. That was not her voice.</p>
<p>Slowly, I peek around the corner.</p>
<p>Resting on her elbows, she is leaned forward with her head hanging to the side. Through the gap in her veil, our eyes meet, and my heart crawls into my throat. In front of her, a plump woman alternates her glare between Iyesha and me, getting more red-faced the longer she has neither coin nor cloth in her possession.</p>
<p>"I paid for--" The woman chokes on the remaining words as Iyesha gently places an alabaster finger over her customer's lips and mutters "Hush." Iyesha's gaze, a pink darkened to near purple by the shade of the wagon's canopy, never leaves mine. An uneasy silence falls over the crowd, and I am suddenly aware that the summer heat is not what is causing me to sweat.</p>
<p>"<em>You</em>," she most definitely does not ask, "have to keep <em>me</em> out of trouble."</p>
<p>"Yes," I agree with confidence.</p>
<p>"You," she continues, still not asking, "who have had more run-ins with the City Watch than I care to number."</p>
<p>"Yes," I reply, though with much less confidence.</p>
<p>"You," she adds, " who should be at the airfield right now, instead of darkening my doorstep."</p>
<p>"You noticed that, did you?" I laugh nervously, rubbing the back of my neck. All of a sudden, my boots need some attention, which I quickly give them.</p>
<p>"Did you at least get it off the ground?"</p>
<p>"No," I admit. "Uncle Sadiq stopped me--" I sputter like a fuel-starved engine and snap my head up. "Wait! How did you even know?"</p>
<p>"Come now, Brother," she says softly. "We both know you would not have built that contraption if you had no intention of flying it."</p>
<p>"Excuse me," the ignored plump woman grumbles. "I need my scarf or my money."</p>
<p>"Apologies," Iyesha says, absolutely not apologizing, as she drops the coins into the box below her. "No refunds." She tosses the woman's scarf lazily toward her, and I don't think she even notices it floating down over the woman's head. Chubby fingers snatch the scarf away as the woman digs a hole through the crowd.</p>
<p>Either the crowd has begun to awaken from its shocked silence or I've just begun to notice it. Calls for trade happen slowly at first, building until the collective is as loud as it was before. Iyesha leans over, resting her elbows on the display case.</p>
<p>"Time to close up," Iyesha says to those closest to the cart. "Hush, now," she coos when they begin to protest, loudly adding, "I will be back tomorrow with more of the same and better."</p>
<p>If that promise were not enough to disperse the throng, Iyesha retrieving her displayed dresses without a second look surely would be.</p>
<p>"Close your mouth," Iyesha says to me. "You look like a fish."</p>
<p>In an effort to keep my jaw from dropping further, I nibble on my lower lip.</p>
<p>She jerks her head toward the interior of the wagon. "Come inside. We can talk about it." Then she pulls the doors closed behind her.</p>
<p>It takes me a moment to register what 'it' she means, but as I take the door handle, I remember the mention of my interrupted flight. The thrill of sitting in that seat again, if only in memory, floods through me, and I throw the door open.</p>
<p>Except, I don't.</p>
<p>The locked handle does not turn, and, instead, I pull myself into the shop's rear wall. With the wind knocked from my wings, spots swirl across my eyes as I try the handle again.</p>
<p>"You locked me out?" I ask, rubbing my bruised chest.</p>
<p>The lock clicks, and Iyesha slowly opens the door, stepping aside and motioning me in.</p>
<p>"Of course," she says, and I can hear that Sands-taken smirk, veil or no veil. "I have to keep myself out of trouble."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mumbling my thanks as I edge past her, I close my eyes for a slow count of ten to adjust to the dim interior. A gentle breeze caresses my skin, a comforting sign that the wagon's ventilation is working, and a welcome respite from the dry heat outside. The door closes behind me and I test my vision. I can see well enough to navigate.</p>
<p>"Now," she begins, removing her niqab and folding it, "would you care to tell me why you are here when you should be elbows-deep in one of Uncle Sadiq's grounded machines?"</p>
<p>She glides past me, placing her folded niqab on the display case, before stooping over a table in the far corner. I cannot help but notice how her robes pull tight across her--Suddenly, I remember how interesting the anywhere-else-but-there is. I can feel the heat spreading across my face and neck, and I am grateful for the darkness, until Iyesha lights a lamp. So much for that.</p>
<p>She turns back to me with a small metal pail in one hand, a cloth folded over the rim.</p>
<p>"Or, perhaps you'd care to explain that," she adds, motioning absently to my face. She closes the distance between us quickly, each step forward backing me further into a literal corner. The low ceiling, built for her dimensions and not mine, nips at the top of my head. Were my hair any longer, I have no doubt I would have lost several to the gaps and splits in the wood. </p>
<p>"Another injury," she mutters, mostly in concern, though there is a hint of exasperation to it. </p>
<p>Tiny Iyesha, standing no taller than my chin, yanks me to her level with an iron grip on my shirt before I can pull away. She pushes me back, and I stumble, landing on a low stool. Lifting the hem of her robes, she straddles my lap before placing the pail on the floor beside us.</p>
<p>"Another run-in with the City Watch, no doubt," she says matter-of-factly, taking my face in her hands and tilting it to examine my forehead.</p>
<p>"No," I mutter through squashed cheeks. </p>
<p>"No?" she mimics as she twists my head back and forth somewhat painfully. "Were you training with Barakah in the Yard?" </p>
<p>"No," I reply, a bit more forcefully. "It happened in the market."</p>
<p>"Did you have to refuse Tariq's advances again?" she asks as if I had not even spoken.</p>
<p>"No!" I argue, trying to pull myself free. I know there must be color in my cheeks, but I refuse to acknowledge it.</p>
<p>Iyesha brushes her thumb across my eyebrow, frowning at the flecks of dried blood sticking to her porcelain fingertips. Absently, she asks "Did Tariq have to refuse <em>your</em> advances again?"</p>
<p>"What!?" I shriek as I swat her hands away. "No, none of that! Some worm-bitten merchant caught me with his whip."</p>
<p>"A pity," she says simply, squeezing the water from a towel then dabbing my face.</p>
<p>After a few blessedly silent moments, she looks down at me without lowering her head. With a smirk, she says, "You know, you don't have to refuse <em>all</em> of Tariq's advances."</p>
<p>"But, that's not--" Iyesha presses a finger to my lips. Cool water drips down from my eyebrow and cheek, soaking into the neck of my shirt.</p>
<p>"Maybe not this time, Brother," she agrees, "but you have before." Leaning close and pressing her free hand against the wall beside my head, she whispers, "I know I wouldn't."</p>
<p>"But, Omar--" Once again, I find myself silenced with a finger over my lips. Will this sands-taken girl ever let me finish a thought?</p>
<p>"Pah, family politics." The pressure leaves my lips as she gestures dismissively with the towel. "Quite a silly reason to pass on such a fine example of a Watchman."</p>
<p>She slides forward on my lap, placing her other hand on the wall on the other side of my head, and I swallow hard. I have no doubt she can hear the blood pounding in my ears. What I am going to call an embarrassed groan squeezes from my throat as I realize her breasts are pressed against my chest. I place my hands under her arms and lie to myself that I am trying to push her away.</p>
<p>"Imagine it, Khaz. Those big arms." Prickle-flesh crawls up my skin as she grabs each of my forearms and strokes them with her fingers. "That strong back." A tremor quakes through me as she pulls my hands down her sides. "That firm--" I squeak as she sandwiches my hands between hers and the globes of her behind.</p>
<p>"It is truly a shame," she whispers, leaning close, hot breath of mint and citrus at my throat, "that there isn't someone like that here. I don't know that I could hold myself back."</p>
<p>"Then," I croak through half the sands in the Eastern Wastes, "don't."</p>
<p>After a long moment, she says, "Maybe I won't." The last words hang heavy in the stillness as she releases my hands, placing hers on either side of my chin and kissing me hard. Breaking our contact for only a moment, Iyesha stands long enough to pull off her robe and toss it aside before dropping back into my lap. Even in the dim lamplight, her skin is beyond pale, smooth, and hairless. One of the signs of the Suntouched.</p>
<p>Unable to resist any longer, I sink my fingers into the soft flesh of her behind and pull her hard against me. Following my lead, Iyesha grinds on my lap. Both my hands slide up her spine. I take her smooth scalp in the palm of one hand and pull her head back. I trail kisses, nibbles, full bites along her neck and shoulder. The indescribable noises she makes are a welcome tickle on my lips.</p>
<p>As many times as we have been together, I have never before experienced her need, her desire to take what she wanted. Nor have I known my desire to let her take it.</p>
<p>I sit up, wrapping one arm around her back and holding her close. She moans as I take one breast in my hand. She tenses, pressing my face into the crook of her neck, where my teeth gently find her flesh. Through the haze of passion, I can feel her tugging at my pants.</p>
<p>"Wait," I whisper, though the beginnings of fear are lost in the moment.</p>
<p>She pulls the bottom of my shirt free from my pants.</p>
<p>"Wait," I say, attempting to push her away.</p>
<p>I shiver as her hands caress my sides, then--</p>
<p>One of her thumbs slips under the edge of my binder.</p>
<p>I feel her tense in my lap, though she makes no other movement. Where before there had been the heat of a Wastes summer day, there is now only the chill of a Wastes winter night.</p>
<p>"Iyesha," I plead. In silence, she places her other hand over my mouth.</p>
<p>"Sister," she whispers, and suddenly my veins are flooded with the entirety of the Great Sea. "This is most inappropriate."</p>
<p>In one smooth movement, she is off of my lap and gathering her robes.</p>
<p>The tiny stool digs into my tailbone. The small lamp casts an eerie orange glow on Iyesha's alabaster skin, and shadows dance across her smooth scalp.</p>
<p>"Khadijah," she says, keeping her still-naked back to me. The name wounds my soul, though, unlike Uncle Sadiq, I allow her to use it. She is my world and I refuse to keep any part of it from her. "You should go."</p>
<p>An icy serpent wraps around my heart yet does nothing for the throbbing knot in my abdomen. Standing, I tuck my shirt in and secure my pants. </p>
<p>I pause at the door, hand on the latch. Surprisingly, Iyesha's arms slip around my waist and she pulls herself against my back.</p>
<p>"I am sorry," she cries. "I just can't--"</p>
<p>"I know," I tell the door, hoping it will pass along the message to her. I pat the back of her arms before gently peeling them away.</p>
<p>Taking a final deep breath of her, I open the door and step once more into the desert sun.</p>
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